Coffee
by Brochelle
Summary: For a few moments they simply stared at each other. Then, almost out of boredom, Palmer quickly glanced over the small collection of coffee cups that had accumulated on the cafeteria table. Post Halo 4
1. Chapter 1

"Spartan one-one-seven?"

He was reaching for his third cup of coffee when she spoke, but his fingers - scarred, still bruised from his fight with the Didact, days ago - hesitated inches from the styrofoam. He raised his gaze. Palmer stood in front of him, on the other side of the table, with her arms folded behind her back. Her ginger hair was tied in a small ponytail, and she wore a black long-sleeve shirt and black combat pants. John had come to associate a certain amount of warmth and joviality underlying her facial expressions, but today the warmth was absent; the look on her face was one of quiet determination.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and finally grasped the mug, holding it contentedly in his large hands. Palmer watched him, brow furrowed. For a few moments they simply stared at each other. Then, almost out of boredom, Palmer glanced over the small collection of coffee cups that had accumulated on the cafeteria table. Brief confusion flitted across her face; he could almost hear the gears working in her head.

"-On behalf of Captain Lasky, I need to know if you are ready for another mission," she said at length.

John took a long sip of coffee. It was scalding, and lacked any sort of sweetener, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind. He needed the full brunt of the caffeine.

"You've read the medical reports," he said, swirling the contents of the cup by moving it in a slow, circular motion. "And the technician's report. My armor has been updated, and I can handle a few bruises." He drank the last of the coffee and calmly put the cup down.

Palmer pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "Chief, Roland claims you haven't slept since the debriefing with HighCom."

Pointedly, John reached for another cup of coffee. "Traitor," he muttered.

If Palmer was taken aback by his uncharacteristic aside, she didn't show it.

"Since you've been assigned to this vessel, and we're shipping out for another mission at Requiem, we need you at your best," Palmer said slowly. "We'll hit slipspace in a few hours. Can you manage a beauty nap in that time?"

John took a sip, mulling it over as he stared at the oddly patterned surface of the table. The cup was suddenly too hot in his hands, and the familiar taste of the black coffee became repulsively unwelcome. He became horribly aware of the fact he wasn't in his armor anymore. The movement betraying his abrupt internal awkwardness, John calmly put the cup on the table and met Palmer's stare.

"Yes."

He stood up and started stacking the cups until he could take them all at once and throw them away. Palmer followed him as he wove his way through the labyrinth of tables and benches, across the empty cafeteria, to the trash can. She followed at a distance that implied she had more to say. John chose to continue walking until Palmer wished to speak; he, for one, was no longer in the mood to talk. He could feel himself slipping into his shell - slipping into a state of distracted thinking that he used to come to terms with certain problems. He had plenty to think about.

He had a few hours to waste. Might as well get on with it.

"Chief?"

He stopped, but did not turn around. The hallway leading from the cafeteria loomed ahead of him, completely void of personnel at this late hour. It held the same eerie flavor as the many Forerunner structures he had encountered in the past. It wasn't an entirely unwanted taste.

For a few seconds too long, the Master Chief stared down the length of the hall and waited - for giggling floating orb, for a Sentinel, for a staggering Combat Form, for a shapely blue hologram. He waited for the Gravemind's baritone diatribe, or perhaps even a smiling voice in his ear to make a quip about the tomb-like coolness to the air.

Nothing appeared, nothing sounded, but it was as to be expected.

"It's alright to sleep. You have to deal with those nightmares, sooner or later."

John didn't turn around. He focused on the hallway, scrutinizing the closed doors and the pale light that made the wall glow.

"Good luck, Chief."

She was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom Lasky found him in the _Infinity_'s cafeteria, his massive figure hunched over a comically small bowl. A spoon was buried into the bowl's contents, sticking straight up like a proud flag, and the Spartan was focusing on it with such intensity that Tom found himself expecting it to vaporize.

Even without his armor John was intimidating. Tom had witnessed him having to duck through low thresholds and move sideways through rows of computer consoles to avoid them; now, as he stood before him at the table, John barely had to lift his head to make eye-contact with him. The hoodie he wore — it had a subtle _UNSC _emblem embroidered upon the breast, a stark navy blue against the gray fabric — was very form-fitting, making an otherwise loose article of clothing into a neat accentuation of his build. As John tucked his feet in, attempting to look more appropriate, Tom heard the rustle of combat pants.

As John looked at him, the urge to gape was close to overwhelming.

"Yes, sir?"

Tom tried not to stare at the scars, or at the dark circles that cupped his eyes. He tried to ignore, for the moment, that he was looking at a ghost; a man so pale and wretched that he seemed close to passing out; a condition that Tom was not used to seeing the soldier in. Fumbling for a semblance of command, Tom held his hands behind his back and offered a curt smile.

John's lips did not move.

"Sarah told me that you haven't been… sleeping lately. Is there something wrong?"

A phantom of emotion: John's brow furrowed, his mouth twitched into a frown. Then his gaze dropped and he became fixated on the spoon again. Tom knew that the man was of few words; he hoped John wasn't blatantly ignoring him, and just picking his response carefully. Cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal, Tom sat down across from John.

His eyes flickered up, and Tom was uncomfortably reminded of Doctor Halsey's own glare, of which he'd often been the unfortunate recipient.

"No, sir. Nothing that a good night's sleep can't fix, sir."

It was hard to tell if he was weary. His gravelly voice had a way of masking emotions almost as well as his visor could.

Frowning, Lasky clasped his hands over the table, mulling over his words before he spoke them. "Chief," he said, "Not to pretend I know more than you about this sort of thing, but you should look into the psych evaluation that Roland suggested."

John cocked an eyebrow. The blatant honesty of the gesture was so surprising that Tom almost found himself smiling; it was John's notable lack of amusement that encouraged him not to.

"I've already had one, sir."

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow in poorly-veiled surprise. "And you think that's enough?"

John seemed to sigh internally, and in the same motion his gaze slipped to Tom's left.

"If I were to be placed in a combat situation," he said slowly. "I would be fully capable of completing whatever objective I was given."

Tom couldn't help but scoff. "Chief, your mental health is just as important as your physical health."

"Yes, sir."

"- So regardless of whether or not you've got Covenant knocking on your door, it's important that you, you know, take care of yourself."

John started fiddling with the spoon, drawing canyons through the colorless mush.

"I understand, sir."

"So you'll go?"

The Spartan sighed and let go of the spoon; the consistency of the oatmeal was such that the spoon didn't immediately fall. Tom frowned at it.

"I will, sir."

Tom didn't have an immediate response. The silence of the cafeteria tumbled upon them, souring the conversation and ending it abruptly. John was still staring at the bowl and the spoon, but not _really _— Tom knew that look, because he'd seen it many times before in fellow comrades and soldiers. It was the look of someone lost in thought; of someone absorbed into a memory that consumed them, filled them.

Wringing his hands gently, Tom tilted his head, trying to catch the Spartan's gaze.

"It's okay to miss them. Her." Again, Tom realized how John's stare bore an eerie resemblance to Halsey's. "It's not going to make you weaker. Remembering them — it won't make you less of a soldier. Grief isn't a punishment."

A fire burst to life behind John's eyes, and he straightened up, pinning Tom with an intense stare. "I failed my objective, sir. Grief _should _be a punishment. A reminder."

_He really does need that eval_, Tom thought. "Punishing yourself for… what happened isn't the way you should remember them, Chief. She wouldn't want that."

John's lips pursed, fractionally. They stared at each other. Then, fluidly, he stood up and picked up his bowl, quietly excusing himself from Tom's company.

As he left, Tom called out.

"Do you miss her?"

John stopped.

"Of course, sir."

His tone held an air of hesitation, so Tom waited, watching the towering, stoic Spartan as he shifted his weight from one foot to another in thought.

Then, head dipping toward his chest, John said, "But I'm proud of her, too."

The Spartan appeared to think for a second, staring at Lasky now, then silently left.


End file.
